


Jealousy

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Hair-pulling, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Rough Sex, holmescest, remember that Faxeman moment when he pulled her hair?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-06-30 15:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15754620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Lady Smallwood and Mycroft are close friends. Sherlock disapproves. Mycroft convinces him he has nothing to worry about by, you know, fucking him.





	Jealousy

Sherlock checked his phone for the hundredth time that hour. Mycroft hadn't replied to any of his texts or called to apologise for not being available at the moment. Sherlock gritted his teeth and shoved the phone back into his breast pocket. He had been trying to get hold of Mycroft for nearly two hours, first motivated by arousal, then mostly by irritation. Not answering a phone was only fine when he did it, Mycroft was supposed to be there for him at all times.

Sherlock had just solved a case, yet another faked suicide. That, also, was only acceptable when he did it. The satisfying outcome, a greedy ex-husband caught before he left the country, made Sherlock crave something more enjoyable than a simple thank you. He quickly realised what exactly he wanted, Mycroft's lips stretched around him. Maybe he could even convince Mycroft to kneel. Excited, he texted Mycroft. Texted him again and again. Mycroft's office was empty and he still hadn't called Sherlock. Time to check his place, then.

As soon as he got out of the cab, Sherlock knew Mycroft was home and yet he clearly couldn't be bothered with opening the door. Sherlock was glad he had the keys. Whatever was keeping Mycroft from tending to his brother's needs, it was about to stop. Sherlock walked in, thinking about what sort of apology for his troubles he expected. Definitely a blowjob and maybe rimming. He could lie on the bed and let Mycroft pleasure him.

He was glad anger prevented him from shedding his clothes. He heard Mycroft's soft chuckle and followed it, only to find him _and_ Lady Smallwood sitting by the fireplace. Drinking, chatting, relaxing after a long day. They were clearly comfortable with each other, perhaps even too much. Mycroft had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie and even undid two top buttons of his shirtsleeves. Lady Smallwood's feet were in his lap and his hand was on her ankle, stroking it gently. Sherlock knew how far apart the two chairs usually were and couldn't believe Mycroft intentionally moved his chair to become Lady Smallwood's footstool.

When they noticed Sherlock, they remained in their seats and only looked at him questioningly. That was one of the moments when Sherlock wished he weren't related to Mycroft. He couldn't explain why that hideous, cosy display bothered him so much. Lady Smallwood was probably thinking he was a spoiled man-child who needed his big brother to hold his hand and that just made him furious.

'Yes?' Mycroft asked after a moment. 'Do you need something?'

'I've been calling you,' Sherlock said, struggling to keep his voice level. An unfamiliar feeling made his chest tighten and his hands clench. The longer he watched Mycroft's fingers caressing her ankles, the worse he felt and they looked mildly amused by his pouty expression.

'My phone's over there and as you can see I can't get up,' Mycroft pointed out. 'Is it urgent?'

Sherlock wanted to say yes but doubted Mycroft would agree with him. 'No,' he mumbled after a moment.

'Goodnight, then,' Mycroft said, with a hint of impatience. He expected Sherlock to turn around and leave him alone with Lady Smallwood, so they could enjoy each other's company without his disapproving face.

Sherlock wasn't going to show how displeased he was with Mycroft's choice. He apologised for the interruption and even closed the front door behind him. There was another way of making Mycroft regret his actions, there had to be. No one had ever come between them and Sherlock realised he had no idea how to deal with it. Due to the complicated nature of their relationship, his options were limited. His first idea, withholding sex, seemed perfect at first. Sherlock smirked and imagined Mycroft's disappointment. Oh, that was going to hurt. He was going to learn that Sherlock's needs always came first. Unless, of course, Mycroft let someone else take care of his needs. Damn.

  
Mycroft didn't call him later that night. He didn't call Sherlock in the morning. It became apparent he felt no need to explain himself or apologise. At noon, Sherlock started wondering how to convince Lady Smallwood to keep her feet to herself. Every idea he considered was flawed in one way or the other. He wasn't used to sharing Mycroft or scaring away his friends. That realisation only fueled his anger.

Mycroft felt no need to drop to his knees and indulge Sherlock. After two whole days of silence, Sherlock was on his way home from John's flat when he noticed the telltale sign of Mycroft's presence, the straightened knocker. Sherlock was nettled even before he opened the door to his flat and saw Mycroft in his chair. Ostentatiously comfortable, Mycroft had removed his jacket and tie and was rolling up his left sleeve. He acknowledged Sherlock's arrival with a quiet, 'Close the door.'

Sherlock did that, despite wanting to annoy Mycroft. He took off his coat and threw it carelessly on the sofa, glad to see Mycroft's disapproval.

'You can apologise now, I'm listening,' Mycroft said and focused on the other sleeve.

Sherlock didn't know where to start. He hated, absolutely hated when others sat in his chair, which only encouraged people to do that. Even Lestrade succumbed to the temptation. On top of that, Mycroft obviously thought he had done nothing wrong. It was insane. Sherlock stayed tight-lipped, preparing himself for a row.

Mycroft leant back and patted his lap. 'Come here, then. We have two hours until Mrs Hudson comes back. Plenty of time to remind you why you mustn't reveal our secret to anyone.'

Sherlock didn't move. So far, he deserved spanking only once when he wanted to surprise Mycroft by waiting for him in his office completely naked. He nearly fell off the desk when Mycroft came in with Anthea... He had been fantasising about a playful spanking combined with fingering, then a quick fuck and a blissful orgasm. However, Mycroft considered it a punishment. Since it was supposed to correct Sherlock's reckless behaviour, it couldn't be pleasurable. He didn't pause to stroke Sherlock's reddened skin lovingly, didn't slip his fingers between his cheeks and needless to say, left Sherlock's confused cock hard and neglected. The humiliating experience of the spanking worked, not only did Sherlock apologise for flashing Anthea but also put extra effort into hiding his true feelings for his brother from other people.

He didn't want to go through that again. He didn't want to go over to Mycroft and willingly lie over his knees, not when he knew what exactly would happen next.

'No,' he said firmly. 'I didn't do anything.'

His defiance didn't impress Mycroft. 'Lady Smallwood remarked you looked like a jealous lover. Need I say more? Over my knees.'

'No.'

' _He looked as though he caught you cheating on him_. Come here, Sherlock. Unless you're ready to apologise now.'

Sherlock definitely wasn't ready. 'If you'd answered any of my texts, I wouldn't have caught you touching her feet. It's your fault. What were you even doing with her? How do you explain that... foot massage? Why did you move your chair closer to hers?'

Mycroft cocked his head to the side. His smug smirk was infuriating. 'Hmm. You are jealous. This is something new.'

'Don't look so pleased.'

Mycroft smiled. 'It's a nice change. You see, my dear, I've always been the jealous one in your relationship. You never had any reason to worry. I have to admit, I enjoy this role reversal.'

'It's time you left,' Sherlock said sharply. Deep inside, he was seething. Mycroft never had real friends, Sherlock never needed to compete with others for his attention. Now he had to and Mycroft was offensively gleeful about that. ' John will be here any moment.'

'No, he won't. Trust me, Lady Smallwood is only a friend.'

'Since when you have friends? You've always hated the concept of friendship.'

'I did. I thought I didn't need a friend, but Lady Smallwood changed my mind. I'm not sure if it was her endless patience, her understanding or the simple fact that she likes me. It's nice to have someone to talk to, as you know. I assure you, there's no sexual or romantic between us.'

'I'd sooner you didn't waste your free time on her.'

Mycroft's smile faded. His face took on a darker expression. 'Have I ever complained about your friends?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'That's different.'

'How?'

'This is difficult for me! Besides, I've never given you reasons to-'

'Irene Adler. Janine.'

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

Mycroft continued, 'John Watson. DI Lestrade. James Moriarty. Shall I go on?'

'This is ridiculous. I 've never-'

'Molly Hooper. Philip Anderson. Mary Watson. Do you remember our discussion about avoiding inconvenient questions about our feelings for each other? Did you forget why we can't live together, although it'd be much easier for us?'

Sherlock made a frustrated noise.

'Including other people into our lives is the ideal smoke screen. How often do others assume you're John's boyfriend?'

'So you want to be mistaken for Lady Smallwood's... boyfriend for our benefit?'

'Yes.'

'No. I don't want that,' Sherlock decided. 'I'd rather you stayed away from her.'

'For goodness' sake. I'm not only your brother. I'm a person, I have my own needs. Has that ever occurred to you, you selfish little boy?'

'Oddly enough, no. Blame yourself for that. And no, I don't want a spanking. You've ruined it for me, as always, you have to make everything as uninteresting as possible,' Sherlock said angrily, thinking it had gone a bit too far. He wasn't sure how they could resolve the situation without his doing what Mycroft wanted. Before he had a chance to say something he would truly regret, he turned around and went to his bedroom.

He shut the door behind him, mostly to prevent himself from going back to Mycroft. He regretted his outburst but certainly didn't change his mind about Mycroft's friendship. Deep breaths, he told himself, slow, deep breaths.

The door was flung open. Mycroft went in, aggrieved. 'I said, nothing happened between us.'

Sherlock felt anger rising up in him again. 'Great. Brilliant.'

'Stop being childish. Say you're sorry. We still have enough time to kiss and make up before your landlady comes home.'

Sherlock scoffed at that idea. 'No, thanks.'

He wanted to show Mycroft how little he cared about his explanations and turned his back on him coldly. Mycroft didn't leave. He took a step forward, lifted his hand and ran it over Sherlock's hair in a soothing gesture. Sherlock hated the pleased sigh that escaped his lips. He almost leant into the touch, but then Mycroft caught a handful and wrenched his head back. Hard. Sherlock let out a surprised scream, his hands flailed up in a vain attempt at freeing himself. Mycroft had none of that. He pulled Sherlock towards him,  his arm around his waist and whispered in his ear, 'I wasn't asking.'

Sherlock was pressed against Mycroft's chest. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to use his safeword, or at least keep struggling. Mycroft couldn't see it how his body reacted and it could stay that way. He had a chance to escape when Mycroft let go of his hair to grab his hip, but then he felt something stiff against his buttock and couldn't pretend anymore. Mycroft sensed the change in his attitude and kissed his cheek. 'Take your trousers off.'

His directness wasn't something new, nor was his tendency to order Sherlock around. His bending a half-dressed Sherlock over the bed, that was new. Sherlock's trousers were still around his knees when he was shoved face-first onto the duvet. He gasped, startled, but didn't start up another struggle. Not the first time either of them was impatient, but they never had jealousy-fueled sex.

'This doesn't mean I-'

'Be quiet.'

Mycroft didn't waste time on long and careful preparation. He surprised Sherlock with two slick fingers, then briefly added two more. He lined up, one hand on Sherlock's back and pressed in deep. Hard. Sherlock kept his head down and hoped the duvet muffled his cry. He loved it when Mycroft was that rough.

'I never seen thought about cheating on you,' Mycroft confessed, his voice strained. He withdrew almost completely and slammed back in. 'Unlike you.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest and deny he had ever contemplated such a thing. Mycroft wasn't in the mood for that anymore. Sherlock again felt his hand on the back of his head. This time, Mycroft simply held him down. It'd be easy to fight him, Sherlock's hands were unbound and he was fast. He lay still. The truth was he wanted it, wanted Mycroft to pin him down and fuck him. He didn't struggle even when Mycroft thrust into him harder and faster, and pulled his hair again, forcing his head up.

'I never wanted anyone else this much,' Mycroft added, softer now.

Sherlock believed him. Mycroft wrapped his arm around his chest and pulled him up, close to his chest. He wasn't moving, content with just holding Sherlock in a tight embrace. That possessive gesture melted Sherlock's anger and he turned his face to kiss Mycroft. Gentler than he intended, almost sweetly. Mycroft cupped his cheek to keep him close, his tongue slipped into Sherlock's mouth. For a long moment, they focused only on the caress, glad the fight was over.

Mycroft's hand slid down, to Sherlock's erection and closed around it. Slow strokes matched with the rhythm he resumed ended the kiss. Nothing was stopping. Sherlock's moans now. He closed his eyes, enjoying the growing pleasure. Mycroft knew exactly how to touch him to get him off quickly, his thumb sweeping over the head was driving Sherlock out of his mind. It reminded him of their first time, a memory that never stopped affecting him in the most obvious way. One night in Mycroft's first flat, only one bed, lying close to each other in the dark, sexual tension almost palpable. First shy kisses, tentative hands moving under the duvet, Sherlock's hips rocking into Mycroft's fist, his explosive orgasm and a strong feeling he wanted more.

Mycroft let go of him just before the culmination of his efforts and pushed Sherlock on the bed. He gripped his hips with both hands and fucked him. The force of it was enough to push Sherlock over the edge. Mycroft followed him after a moment, coming with a satisfied groan.

Mycroft wasn't in a rush to pull out, whenever he could, he would stay inside Sherlock as long as possible. When he finally released him, he patted his arse affectionately and said, 'Turn around.' Sherlock did, knowing what he had in mind. Mycroft liked to clean him with his tongue. He knelt down and licked until no drop of Sherlock's release remained on his skin. Sherlock, lying comfortably on his back with Mycroft between his thighs, was close to feeling grateful for Lady Smallwood's involvement with his brother. Wild sex with clothes on was one of the few things they hadn't tried yet and it seemed they both loved it.

Sherlock did believe Mycroft and wasn't going to obsess over his friendship with Lady Smallwood. Smelling Mycroft's clothes and looking for a long, blond hair on his pillow, those were examples of a perfectly reasonable behaviour. To be absolutely sure his brother wasn't fucking the Home Secretary, Sherlock increased the frequency of their private meetings, leaving Mycroft too tired and spent to stray.


End file.
